----------------------------------------
The march down to the headwaters took the remainder of the night. The sky to the west morphed into the first greys and lilacs of morning as the war party ventured within sight of the headwaters.
“Going to have less than an hour of cover,” Lloyd said.
Sara nodded, agreeing. “If we’re going to attack, we need to do it now.”
Maat used their spy glass. The headwaters were pallid, having receded down to a narrow trickle. The entire northern flank was a muddy, flat plain offering no cover. A great metal stake ran diagonally through the stone circle at the grove’s heart. Two watch towers sat on either side of the grove, with four sentries on patrol in each such that no direction as ever neglected.
Beyond that, there was a token force down on the ground. Jean’in in their strange leather dusters patrolled the stone circle. Not a lot of cover – there were few trees in the highlands to draw upon.
A handful of priests from that Forge-cult were striking man-sized stakes into the stone along the perimeter of the grove. There were no more than five of these forge-priests, but who knew what strange magic they could call upon?
“Well, hopefully these aren’t the same priests who spared us back in the abandoned city,” Maat said. “Yeah, we should do this now before more show up.”
With every new stake put in place their trump card would be only further away.
Most of the garrison were other Stormlanders. Judging by the striped bangles on their bark-armor, they were Laval.
The beginnings of a camp were being formed on the western plains. It was high and dry, lest the waters ever return to their maximum extent. Someone in the enemy command structure knew what they were doing.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Maat said. “If any kind of distraction occurs to draw everyone to the western camp, attack from the east. If I don’t return in that period, storm the western camp anyway. If it looks like I’ve been captured instead, retreat to the highlands and try to get reinforcements.
“And then come back and avenge you?” Kur asked.
“No! Come right back here and try to rescue me.” Maat frowned.
----------------------------------------
Laval were unique among the various Stormheaths clans in that their war-chiefs received a dedicated tent. And an official, dedicated position befitting their caste rather than an ad-hoc role anointed at a clan meet. There were never more than three full-time war chiefs among the Laval, usually sharing duties or competing against each other in equal measure. The oldest was dead, and as for who was in charge now…
Could it be him?
Maat left his war club behind, then snuck through the modest thickets that ran right up to the edge of the Laval camp. Lowlanders didn’t quite grasp the terrain of the fumaroles or the highlands. They didn’t imagine that anyone could sneak up on the camp from the north. Guards were sparse.
The largest yurt would belong to the war-chief. Maat crawled under a gap between the floor flaps. Within, the yurt was unlit, and abandoned.
Maat groped about in the dark. There were affects imported from further south, just various luxury items. There was a plate full of stormheaths grapes, waiting by a cot for the chief to return. Maat took a few – what, it wasn’t like they were going to notice, and who was going to poison food in their own tent on the off-chance an intruder showed up?
Footsteps walked along the outside of the tent on occasion. Just random camp activity, same things the Secondhomers were doing at the treetop camp. If anyone was onto his infiltration there was no sign of it.
This changed when a stomping, angry gait approached the tent flap. The gait was longer than a human. Not indicative in and of itself – Maat had scuffled with the war chief for just a few minutes, several weeks ago and so didn’t know the gait by sound alone – but it wasn’t Jean’in.
Maat hid behind an ornately carved wooden chair. They would’ve had to port this all the way up here on foot. But it was thick enough to mask an entire full-sized human.
As Lionli’Laval approached, the sounds of an argument came with him. Though Maat didn’t recognize Lionli by gait, he certainly recognized that booming click-sound of the Lavalian dialect.
“Heresy? The sacred groves haven’t communed with anyone in millennia. Be glad we are not tasked with guarding those camps. If anyone has further complaints, sharpen the grooves on your war club and issue a leadership challenge.”
Lionli burst through a tent flap with an aggressive click.
The younger child of the Laval’s former chief paced about the yurt, swearing, insofar as the Lavali language allowed for that. While the hidden outlander didn’t quite understand everything as the war chief started ranting to himself, he definitely caught “Jean’in’quiat” – “foreign savages.”
This would either be the turning point of the war or result in Maat’s swift demise. If only the river god could manifest into the yurt here for backup. Well, couldn’t wait for a miracle for everything.
Maat emerged from behind the ornate chair.
“Hey, Lionli.”
The lanky Laval angled his torso. Neutral, dumbfounded expression on his face. While he was neither armed nor armored, there was a war club holstered on the far wall.
“Five minutes of your time. Then do what you will,” Maat managed in something apparently intelligible enough.
Lionli held up three fingers. His neutral expression turned into a frown. Three minutes.
Okay.
“I can bring your river god back, destroy the dam keeping the Stormheaths hostage, and repel the foreign Jean’in.”
“You are a foreigner,” Lionli said with a scowl.
“Outlanders are from… a bit further afield,” Ma’at said. He looked towards the headwaters. “Besides, I was born on the island. Closer than you’d think.”
Lionli’s eyebrow angled upwards. It was an awfully human gesture, considering how much he hated them.
“Either help dispel that forge cult from the headwaters. Or at least stay out of the way.”
“You… have the manpower to do this?”
“To beat the Jean’in here alone? Any day,” Maat bluffed.
Was that accurate? Debatable. Lionli didn’t need to know that. And if their forces combined it would be no problem anyway.
“Look, your father and mine were good friends. Or at least allies.”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“My father is dead.”
“Killed by an older brother, who is now forcing your clan to round up all the others and put them in camps, yes?”
Lionli’s face was implacable. “Yes.”
“So, help us fight back. Repel the Jean’in, depose your brother.”
“This is not how Laval do things. A challenge would have to be made. Duel to the death would have to be arranged. It would be dishonorable to assault the Jean’in before this.”
“Well, can you at least stand aside?”
Just need a chance to get at those restraining bolts.
The tent flap opened as another unassuming Laval warrior stepped in. The figure paused, eyes moving past the war chief to Maat.
Lionli turned to the new arrival. “Do three laps around the camp. When you reach this tent again, sound the alarm.”
The warrior nodded, then left the tent. Next, Lionli turned to Maat.
“It takes six minutes to walk the camp once.” Lionli held up three fingers. “Three times that. You have that long to repel the Jean’in before I marshal the camp.”
Maat bowed his head.
“Just have to make it count.”
----------------------------------------
Maat charged through the outskirts of the camp, skipping over pits of mud on his way towards the stone circle. He was entirely unarmed, rushing into a stone circle full of an unknown number of Jean’in.
The eastern lookout tower spotted Maat rushing out of the Laval camp almost immediately. Their firearms weren’t equipped to shoot at things quite so close, but they could still take potshots at the young man as he ran parallel to their platform. The western lookout was blocked by a stone arch, mercifully.
A handful of ground-based Jean’in rushed forward, arm-length blades pulled out from holsters hidden inside their leather dusters. Three versus one, and that wasn’t even counting the four hammer-wielding forge-monks emerging from the stone grove.
Maat shouted as he charged. Babbling nonsense, just a mindless war cry. Hopefully the twins were paying attention to the perimeter, or this was going to be a short offensive.
The forge-priests observed for now. The three foreign mercs were a nigh-insurmountable obstacle, but the situation wasn’t pitch-black hopeless yet.
The lead Jean’in rushed forward to swing at Maat. He dodged, then kicked the foe off into the mud. A total lack of armor gave the outlander an advantage in maneuverability. Though he certainly didn’t want to get hit…
Scuffling this close to the trio of ground sentries also kept the watch towers from taking pot shots at him.
Two remaining ground sentries lunged for him at once. The man to Maat’s left swung his machete, which Maat dodged. But the next Jean’in came in with a haymaker that sent the Secondhomer flying.
Now in the mud, with the machete-wielder bearing down on him and the first ranger getting back to his feet, Maat needed to get some distance, and fast.
The machete-wielder lunged again. On instinct, Maat reached for a rock on the ground and pulled up nothing but mud.
That’ll do.
Maat threw a huge clump of mud at the man with the machete. The mud landed right in his eyes, blinding him and forcing him to drop the blade in a failed attempt to protect his eyes.
Yes! River luck still applied, even on a muddy plain.
Next, Maat threw his body weight back, sliding to his knees. The first foreigner received a slight splash of mud from Maat’ barrage. Not much, but enough to send him falling backwards.
Down to one versus one. Except…
Three of the four watchmen were climbing down from the tower. They’d be on the ground within thirty seconds. No doubt the other watchtower was attempting something similar.
Maat reached around for more useful objects in the mud flat but nothing appeared. Perhaps his luck had finally run out.
Just then, a shout came out from the western watchtower. There was a crash as a firearm went off, aimed out at the northern shrubland.
Thirty-plus lanky, untested stormlanders charged over the mud flats. Maybe the river luck had one last burst of good fortune left.
Lloyd and Sara lead the charge. The lone remaining gunman in the watch tower aimed towards the head of the pack. One sentry with a quick trigger finger could still cut down their war party before they ever reached the grove.
Maat rushed towards the watchtower – made of imported wood in a rush-job – and kicked one of the supports. The nest above rocked wildly, throwing the marksman’s aim off. Two of the crew climbing down lost their balance and fell into the rocky mud. Maat gave the closest one a kick to the head, incapacitating him.
With reinforcements they now outnumbered the Jean’in garrison 6-to-1. Lionli was keeping to his word for now. While vastly outgunned, they may just be able to pull off a victory.
----------------------------------------
Only two of the foreign regulars even managed to fire their guns. Vastly outnumbered and now fighting in close quarters, the advantage of their long guns was neutralized.
“Push ‘em back!” Lloyd said.
Maat picked another rock out of a tide pool and beaned a Jean’in on the side of the head. Excellent.
“Hey, where’s the satchel?” Maat cried out.
Over the din of battle, Rita emerged, having beaten another Jean’in down with an oblong wooden contraption.
“Handed it off to Kur’iel.”
“Kur. Where are ya?”
The remaining Jean’in were split in two, rapidly being pushed back underneath the watch towers. A particularly adventurous stormlander was pushing through the middle, right into the stone grove. It was Kur!
“Watch out for the forge-monks,” Maat tried to say.
Others shouted the warning as well. But Kur’iel could not hear them over the sounds of combat.
A clash of metal on metal echoed off the stone circle. The first forge-monk appeared, brandishing twin hammers. Another clang ignited the mallets, and the monk threw his left-hand hammer directly at Kur’iel.
The blow struck Kur square in the chest. A flaming hammer bounced off a bark breastplate and flew, landing in the mud and continuing to smolder.
“Hey!”
Maat ran forward, picking up a war club that had been abandoned in the mud. He swung at the monk, club colliding with the fiery hammerhead.
They traded blows – one, then two, then in a flash they were up to five. The shorter handle of the hammer gave this nameless monk a bit of an advantage in such close quarters. It was everything Maat could do to put his body weight into each swing of the full-length war club. What’s more, with each traded blow, the club began to smoke, then smolder, then burn.
Lloyd joined in with a blow to the monk’s side that should’ve sent him sprawling, but barely caused the hammer-wielder to flinch. Lloyd immediately followed up with two haymakers and a grapple that at least put some distance between the pair and the incendiary mallet.
“Hold ‘em there,” Rita said.
A shot rang out immediately after. The forge-priest clambered over, back hitting a stone pillar. The priest slumped over.
“Still four more,” Maat said.
Kur was still in the mud, struggling to get to his feet. He chucked a satchel-sized cannister to Maat. Together, Maat and Rita ran the package into the grove.
----------------------------------------
The remaining forge-priests did not reveal themselves at first. There was an unobstructed path to a great metal stake blocking the grove’s central spring.
“This is the thing keeping the Torrent from flowing?” Rita asked.
“Something like that.”
Maat handed Rita the satchel. It was her invention after all.
A thundering boom of metal on metal sounded from the mists to their left. Three forge-priests emerged, casting that strange percussive aura.
Rita brandished a few self-made melee weapons of her own.
“Glue it to the pillar at the base. Press the primer button three times. Pull that chord, then run like hell.”
“What?” Maat looked to Rita, then to the satchel.
“Press the button. Pull the chord. Run.”
Rita leapt into battle. She threw a cannister at the lead forge-priest, which exploded and scattered the remaining two.
That ought to serve as a sufficient distraction, Maat thought.
A flat surface on one end of the satchel was coated in a viscous sludge. It fused to the pillar almost immediately upon application. An oblong knob sticking out the top cranked some internal mechanism with each pull. By the third pull the satchel was vibrating.
“Almost ready,” he said.
Rita and the two forge-priests left standing scuffled in ankle-deep water not far from the pillar.
“Keep going, kid. Doing great.”
A button on the rightmost side of the strange device awaited. Maat moved to press it.
A hammer strike sailed just over Maat’s head, bouncing off the metallic stake in a shower of sparks.
----------------------------------------
Dust settled. Maat coughed up spring water.
The sudden release of pressure had manifested in a great spewing geyser erupting out from the now-empty spring. All sorts of gunk and silt emerged; it would be some time before it returned to the life-giving clear hue of the Torrent.
So much dust had been kicked up that the grove was shrouded as if it were under a thick fog.
“Rita. You there?” Maat coughed some more. “Sound off.”
“Get out of the grove.” Rita’s voice sounded from somewhere off to the right.
Hard to see the stone circle amidst all this dust. Maat stumbled forward. It was like navigating a maze. Many stones had been toppled over by the collapsing metallic stake, further scrambling the layout.
Maat stubbed his toe on an upturned boulder. Suddenly, short and heavy footsteps rushed him from behind.
One last forge-priest, badly singed and robes in tatters but with underarmor unscathed, swung a greathammer with glowing flaming runes. Maat parried with his war club, deflecting the massive mallet but causing the club to shatter down to the handle.
The effort required to deflect the hammer sent Maat stumbling back on top of a toppled stone. He was exposed, pinned in on either side by debris, unable to move. The priest held the hammer aloft, ready for a vertical strike.
A deluge of rain began to fall all at once. The priest was struck in the head by some globule and went flying in a corkscrew fashion. He struck a stone with force enough that the crack of the rock sounded over shattering bones, then the whole thing collapsed atop the now-limp priest in a heap.
The heavy downpour banished the fog, then let up shortly thereafter. Aminia stood at the geyser’s edge, water lichen and riverwood bow held casually in his off hand.
“Apparated just in time,” Aminia said, then chucked the bow backwards into the geyser. “Could barely tell up from down with that fetter blocking the headwaters.”
----------------------------------------